


but we carried on anyway

by bibliotaphist



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Angor and Walt still are contentious but it's a little less mean spirited now, Good Mom and Chaos Dads, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliotaphist/pseuds/bibliotaphist
Summary: a series of StrickLakeRot drabbles bc I got sucked into this threesome and there's no going back





	1. Chapter 1

Barbara shuffled through the kitchen, searching for her box of granola bars as she prepared for work. With Jim gone, on top of having a dozen babies to look after, she was having less and less time to grab breakfast in the morning. 

In the living room, a few sleepy noises came from the cribs scattered around, until one rose into a wail. Slumping, she made to go check, rounding the doorway when she saw a tall, dark shape. She jumped, then relaxed. 

“Oh, I didn’t hear you.” 

Angor was holding Eloise tucked against one shoulder, bouncing slightly in an attempt to soothe her. A towel was draped over his shoulder in an attempt to soften his unyielding skin. His face was as stony as ever. 

“How’d you sleep?” She asked amiably as she rummaged through the cabinet.

“I did not.” 

“Oh.” Finally finding the box, she began searching for a blueberry one. “Why not?” 

“I was guarding the children. There were no incidents.” 

“Aw,” She crossed the room and reached up to cup behind his head, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re sweet.” 

He grunted in response, but leaned down to bunt her forehead with his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Angor had never really understood the human body. It was a peculiar collection of water and meat, soft and fragile, easily broken. 

He knew Barbara looked after all manner of human ailments, great and small. She’d seen damn near anything that could go wrong, and then some, and described it often enough. But it was what he found on her body when she undressed and bathed that sparked his curiosity.

Strange, purple blotches, mostly centered on her knees and calves, a few speckling the outsides of her upper arms. She never seemed to notice them, and he found himself wondering if they’d always been there, though he was quite sure they hadn’t. 

The three of them were sprawled out in various positions around the living room one night, Barbara and Strickler laying in a tangle of limbs, him in his usual spot in an armchair not far away (he was not used to the closeness yet, found it overwhelming at times; they let him come and go without questions, much like a half-wild cat). 

Barbara shifted, and her night dress rode slightly up her thigh. Peeking from beneath the hem was a massive, almost black mark splotching across her pale skin. Angor lowered his carving sharply. 

She must have seen the look on his face, because she asked “What’s wrong?” Her voice was worried, and Strickler craned his neck around in surprise from her urgent tone. 

“Your leg.” He nodded towards the mark.

The pair both looked down at once, and then Barbara laughed in relief. “Oh, this? Nasty, isn’t it?” Strickler made a noise of sympathy, but didn’t seem unduly alarmed. 

“What happened?” Curiosity had finally won out over reluctance to ask, lest he violate some unspoken human custom that the Changeling was already aware of. Humans took offense to the strangest of things sometimes.

“Got nailed with a gurney.” She pulled back the gown to inspect the mark more closely. “It didn’t hurt that bad. I’m surprised it’s so big.” 

“What… is it?” Now they both looked surprised again, and Angor felt embarrassment itch on his neck. But Barbara suddenly perked, apparently delighted by the chance to explain human morphology to the grievously under-educated. 

“Well, sometimes with blunt force trauma, blood vessels under the skin rupture and cause discoloration, you know, bruising.” With her fingers, she delicately stretched the skin on her thigh tight, and Angor could see the ugly yellow ring around the darker flesh. “Do trolls not do that?”

For a moment, Angor rolled around in his head the idea of being able to see blood pooling under one’s own skin. Firmly, he replied. “Definitely not.” 

Barbara smiled at him, and then returned her drowsy gaze to the picture box droning in the background. Angor picked up his carving again, though sometimes his gaze returned to the large bruise on Barbara’s leg. 

Maybe human bodies were a bit stronger than he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angor is Claire's troll dad, and probably teaches her about magic and how to knife things. in return, she teaches him culture.

When Walter had first emerged in the human world countless years ago, he’d marveled at the strange ways of the humans around him. They knew little of magic or medicine, were so primitive in their architecture and engineering. He’d wondered often how this species had been capable of stealing the world right out from under their feet. 

As any good Gumm-Gumm, he’d started out reviling humans even as he worked to integrate into them. Then, he’d heard the first strum of soft human fingers against the strings of a harp. 

As if he’d been dashed with cold water, he’d felt like he’d woken from a dream. Raptly, he’d watched the performance as best he could whilst pretending to be a mindless infant in his human mother’s arms. When so many of his earliest memories had long since faded, that night remained as crisp as ice on a midnight pond, frozen in stark relief.

Maybe the very seeds of his future decisions had been planted on that night, so long ago. Could a species that created something so beautiful, he thought privately, really deserve to be destroyed?

He knew other Changelings he’d been in contact with had similar stirrings at some point, Nomura even more so than him. Music in the Trollish world was harsh, stony, all hard edges. Nothing like the delicate, honey-sweet burbling that a human harp or flute could produce. Trollish singers, with voices like rocks, could never satisfy him anymore.

Music, in his opinion, was what separated mankind from the beasts. So, what better to acclimate a troll from ages past to the human world, than with music?

That was the theory, anyways. In truth, Angor was proving shockingly obtuse to the various forms of musical flirtation he was putting forth. 

When he’d played a bit of Bach for a romantic evening meal for the three of them, Angor had thought the speaker was his dinner and taken a bite out of it. 

Putting on a Sinatra record and trying to playfully sweep him into a dance had ended with him getting headbutted when Angor confused his intentions for a more traditional Trollish courting fight. 

He’d considered taking him to a local band that was performing in a nearby park one weekend, but suspected that if Angor disliked the performance, he’d just throw rocks at them from the benches. 

Eventually, he’d given up, ready to admit that the peculiar third to his relationship might be an incurable Philistine. It pained him, because Angor, for all his shortcomings in taste, was a better lover than Walter felt he had any right to expect. 

Then, Jim and Claire had come home for a visit. 

Jim, despite his initial misgivings, had come to accept their little ménage à trois, and was on friendly enough terms with Angor now. The two would spar together, critique each other’s forms, and shared bites of a cast iron skillet Barbara had brought home as a celebration dinner. 

Angor and Claire, however, had grown thick as thieves. 

Her magic had only strengthened since she’d left, and it seemed she was quite the natural. She and Angor would sneak away together for hours at a time, off into the woods, and would come back dirty and bruised. They looked like they’d been attacked by a pack of wild dogs, save for their exuberant chuckles. 

Barbara had remarked then; “It’s good to see him smile.” Walter had agreed. They’d asked him what the two did out there for so long, but his answers were usually vague.

Eventually, Jim and Claire had to return, and Angor, for all his stoicism, seemed genuinely sad to see them go. 

That evening, Angor was accompanying him to pick up Barbara at the end of her shift. The two sat in the car, the top half of Angor’s head and Walter’s twining horns sticking out the sunroof. The companionable silence was broken when Angor said “I think I understand this human music you like so well.”

Walter looked at him in surprise. “You what?” 

“Claire has shown me some I enjoy.” He held out one large hand for Walt’s phone, and he handed it over, curiosity overwhelming his desire to keep his screen away from Angor’s sharp claws. 

Angor painstakingly typed out the tiny words, squinting nearsightedly at the phone. Then, he set it down and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

Walter nearly swerved off the road when a metal guitar riff screamed over the speakers. 

The tires squealed on asphalt, leaving long black tracks on the road behind them. The high, sonic wail of drums and electric guitar continued. Walt clutched the steering wheel in one hand, his right ear in the other.

“WHAT IS THAT?” He shouted over the noise. Angor was sitting quietly, one foot resting on his knee, with the most serene, disinterested expression Walter had ever seen. 

“Claire called it the ‘Papa Skull’.” 

Another swell of music, and a woman with a voice like sandpaper began screaming along words he couldn’t understand. 

With a violent motion, Walt snatched up his phone and took a massive bite from it. The bluetooth connection fizzled out to blessed silence as he chewed, glass crunching between his teeth. 

Angor’s expression didn’t change, save for a slight upturning of the corners of his mouth. “You don’t like it?” He asked pleasantly. 

Walter only scowled out the windshield, chewing bad-temperedly. 

He’d liked Angor better as a Philistine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think Walt would just go back to being a teacher after the Eternal Night, troll or no

Walter stood at the bathroom sink, drowsy and droopy eyed, and with a pounding headache. Opening the bathroom cabinet, he plucked out a white bottle of Advil and rattled it in his ear. With a considering eye, he shook out two small pills, then shrugged, and poured the entire bottle into his mouth, swallowing it dry. Tossing the empty bottle into the trash, he rubbed his itching eyes.

It had been a hellish day, the sun beating down on the school, bathing the poorly-ventilated building in the heat of a southern California May. Walter, trapped as he was by his Trollish skin, felt like he was being baked alive. 

The teenagers he taught were drunk off the scent of summer, nearly frothing at the mouth for the approaching end of the year. Controlling them was a faraway dream, and frankly, he wasn’t paid enough to try. He’d take a Nyarlagroth over a pack of graduation-high seniors any day. 

Walter groaned, twisting at the waist, his lower back giving a satisfying pop. Fumbling with the ties of his bathrobe, he took a towel down from the cupboard. Ambling to the shower, he pulled back the curtain. 

“Strickler.” 

Walter almost twisted his foot when he jumped, yelping in surprise. The rug skidded under his feet, and he landed hard. The impact juddered up his back from his surely bruised tailbone. The shower curtain, caught in his hand, came down with a tremendous crash.

Groaning with pain, he lay winded, the shower curtain draped over him like a funeral shroud. Slowly, one quivering green hand found the sink. Painfully, Walter dragged himself upright. On top of his headache, anger pulsed like a vein in his forehead.

“Angor!” he roared. 

Angor lounged in the empty bathtub, his feet resting on the lip, a towel wadded up behind his head. In his lap was a bowl full of the half chewed remains of the chicken wing dinner Barbara had attempted to barbecue the night before. 

“What,” Walter said, with great diction. “Are you doing.” 

Angor thoughtfully selected another bone, then popped it into his mouth, chewing with obvious relish. “The fleshbags call it ‘me time’.” He replied between chews.

“You didn’t think to say anything, the whole time I was in here?” Walter picked up the shower curtain, brandishing it at him. His rump hurt where he’d fallen on it, so he stood slightly bent, one hand resting at the small of his back. “Before something exactly like this happened?” 

Angor shrugged. “You seemed busy. Didn’t want to disturb you.” 

“I am disturbed!” Walter shouted. “And so is the alignment of my vertebrae!” 

Angor watched him, chewing slowly and looking monumentally unimpressed. “Maybe you should try this ‘me time’.” He held out a desiccated bone to him. “Hungry?”

“Ugh.” Walter sat slowly on the lip of the tub, taking the bone and crunching it absently between his teeth. Angor kicked one foot up over the other, watching Walter with interest. 

At his gaze, Walter crooked a brow at him. “The light was off when I came in. How long have you been sitting here in the dark?” 

Angor picked his tooth with a pinkie nail. “A while.” 

“Why didn’t you just use the couch?” 

“Why do you ask so many questions.” 

“Fine, keep your secrets.” Walter straightened, poking at a piece of bone stuck between his teeth with his tongue. “But you do have to go. I need a bath.” 

With a cock of his head, Angor looked him up and down, then gave a rakish grin. He stood, clambering out of the tub, looming over him. “Why leave? I can help.”

Walter gave him a suspicious look. “What do you--?”

Angor struck like a cobra. His head burrowed into the crook of Walter’s neck, dragging his wet, rough tongue up his unprotected cheek. The self-satisfied grin was so big, Walter could see it, even from his poor vantage point. 

With a disgusted shriek, Walter shoved the grinning Angor away. 

Planting both hands on his chest, he pushed Angor bodily from the room, the much larger troll walking backwards obligingly, laughing low in his throat. When he crossed the threshold, Walter seized the doorknob, pointing a furious finger in Angor’s face. 

“You are vile!” 

He promptly slammed the door in Angor’s face. Angor crossed his arms, smiling expectantly at the door. 

As if on cue, the door reopened a crack, very slowly. Walter’s face appeared in the opening, slightly sullen, mostly embarrassed. He didn’t look at Angor, instead glaring at the floor. 

“...Maybe later.” He muttered toward the carpet. His face disappeared again, and the door snapped shut. 

Angor gave a snorty laugh. Leaning against the bathroom door, he rapped it lightly with his knuckles. “I’ll look forward to it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams that come back like bad pennies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now for something completely different. Angor's very traumatized man, that shit doesn't go down easy.

Angor didn’t sleep. 

Barbara and Strickler often chided him for it, but he let it roll off his shoulders as it came. They asked him why, when he looked so awfully tired, he didn’t rest with them on their bed; it was more than large enough, and his presence would be welcomed. All the same, he kept his distance, for reasons he couldn’t tell them about, not yet. Maybe not ever. 

But in the end, his body betrayed him, just as it always had. 

In Barbara’s den ( _his_ den, as he’d begun to secretly consider it), he lay sprawled out on the couch, head resting on his arm. The day was hot, and Strickler was due home soon, along with their dinner, so he briefly allowed himself the luxury of idleness. 

Sunlight dappled the heavy blinds through the window, the shapes of leaves dancing on the afternoon breeze. The sounds of children on the street and cars passing by washed over him like the ripples of a lake, filling his ears with the gentle hum of life. It was beautiful. A world at peace. 

The close air and slow turn of the ceiling fan were as good as a hypnotist’s pendulum to his drowsy eye. A heady wine of complacency and contentment lowered his guard, and his eyelid drooped, suddenly so very heavy. With gentle hands, sleep bore him down into darkness. 

_Through a fine mist, he moved past familiar faces, both new and old._

_His mother, wizened and fierce, her burning eyes mirroring his own._

_Borbu, his childhood playmate, as the two of them frolicked through the dark jungle, their young bodies clumsy and brimming with life._

_Barbara and Walter, their hands and bodies entwining in a rectangle of pearly moonlight._

_Ythraz the Young, the first Trollhunter to fall to his knife._

The parade of effigies screeched to a halt on Ythraz’s face, frozen just as he remembered it: twisted with fear and rage. Aye, young she’d been when the Amulet chose her, and young still when Angor bade it choose another by plunging his blade into her heaving chest. She’d fought bravely, but she’d been no match for him. 

_Overhead, Ythraz’s blade whistled through the empty air where his neck had been an instant before. She’d swung wide, exposing her chest. An amateurish mistake. In that barest of openings, he barreled into her._

_They rolled together on the wet grass, and he knocked the broadsword from her grip. It vanished where it fell. Instead, she turned on him with her bare hands. They fought like animals, biting and scratching, with no pretense of chivalry._

_One clawed hand scrabbled for his knife where it rode on his hip. An armored knee jerked up, catching him between the legs, and Angor saw red. With a scream, he tore his blade free. Flipping it in his hand, he let fly with a blow fueled by pain and animal fury._

_His aim was true; the cruel, curved blade sank into the hairline gap in her armor where mail met plating._

_They both fell still, tangled together on the ground. With a horrible choking noise, Ythraz gaped up at him in disbelief. One hand gripped the knife sprouting from her breast, the other clasping his shoulder with stiffening fingers. His stunned expression mirrored hers. In a strangled voice, he heard himself uselessly rasp out “I’m sorry.”_

_Slowly, her grip slackened. Her hands fell away as she breathed her last, and he watched a ring of unfeeling stone blossom around his blade. For a moment, he only knelt there, staring down at the work of his hands._

_Out of nowhere, the white-hot wall of vicious pleasure that suddenly pulsed through him had him staggering to his feet. Bent double, Angor bared his teeth at the corpse in a horrible grin, clawing at himself in a paroxysm of anguished glee._

What is this madness? _he thought. This wasn’t him. Nothing about this was him. A gilded hand rose up within him to squeeze his pulsing heart, gripping him by the throat._

Take it, _whispered a voice, gruesome in it’s delight._ Take it, take it, _take it!_

_The yawning emptiness inside him pulsed with an evil hunger._ So young, _murmured the voice,_ so young, and so vibrant. _Trembling, Angor stared down at the lifeless statue that used to be Ythraz the Young. The emptiness called out for something to fill it, and a horrible, delicious idea took root in his mind._

_With quivering lips and crouching like a hungry animal, Angor let the arcane words fall from his mouth like stones. For an instant, nothing happened, and he almost rent his flesh with his maddened desperation. Then, coiling like a serpent from the remains of the young Trollhunter, a light. Scrambling towards it on hands and knees, he opened his mouth. As if drawn by a gust of air, Ythraz’s soul flew down his waiting throat._

_Warmth rushed to his belly, like a mouthful of fine liquor. A splash of liquid sunlight, Ythraz’s fledgling soul seeped into his veins, alive with the laughter and innocence of a child. The sweetness and light swelled inside him, filling him up, and for a second, he basked in it, forgetting what he’d lost._

_But only for a second. ___

__

__Angor woke halfway through his roll from the couch, hand clamped over his mouth. Blindly, he half-ran, half-staggered into the kitchen, barely reaching it before his stomach emptied it’s molten contents into Barbara’s sink._ _

__The shockwave left him slumped and trembling over the counter. Knees weak, he had to prop himself up on his elbows to keep from sliding to the ground._ _

__“Angor?” A tremulous voice rose from behind him. Angor froze._ _

__His head turned in increments. Behind the kitchen counter, poised over a bag of groceries, Barbara and Strickler stared agog at him, arrested with shock._ _

__Barbara was the first to shake free. “Angor?” She repeated, darting around the counter, Walter at her heels. “Are you sick?” Her small hands found his shoulders, and he flinched. He felt her waver for a second, but gently, she replaced them._ _

__Walter appeared at his elbow, gingerly taking his arm. “Let’s have a sit, shall we?” he suggested. They each took an arm to steady his wobbling steps, and Angor allowed himself to be guided into a chair. As he sank into the seat, they hovered around him apprehensively._ _

__“You must be out of it,” Barbara said gently, crouching to put a soft palm to his forehead. “You never let us manhandle you.” He turned his face away, humiliation and nausea slitting his eye, and instead he studied the pattern of the tiled floor._ _

__“M’fine.” He didn’t even sound like himself, mumbling like a simpleton. He clenched his fists on his knees._ _

__“Yes, you sound chipper,” Walter replied coolly. “Now, what’s the matter?”_ _

__Angor wanted to shove them off, escape to a high, lonesome place where he could heave his guts out in private. But when he caught the full face of their worried looks, he softened. “I--” he cleared his throat and tried again. “I was… dreaming.”_ _

__Barbara and Strickler both gave him inquisitive looks. “Dreaming about what?” Walter asked._ _

__Angor didn’t reply, only braced his hands on his knees and scowled at the floor. Rather than press him, Barbara rose from the floor and stepped around him, hands on his shoulders, cheek pressed against his. “That bad, huh?”_ _

__In lieu of a reply, Angor reached over his shoulder to take one of her delicate hands in his own. He felt her surprise, and maybe he was a little surprised himself. Over his shoulder, Walter and Barbara shared a look between themselves. With her hand still clasped in his, Barbara rose and tugged him coaxingly. Angor allowed himself to be led to the den, Barbara in the lead, Walter bringing up the rear._ _

__On the old rug spread out on the hardwood floor, the three curled up together, Angor clasped between them. Strickler lay tucked in the crook of his shoulder, head resting on Angor’s pitted chest. Barbara lay under him like a pillow, his head cushioned in the curve of her belly, so he could hear the steady pulse of her heart in his ear._ _

__Angor lay stiff in the embrace for a long while. The fine tremor in his limbs still hadn’t quieted, and his ears rang with the sound of Ythraz’s death rattle. Would they still be here, lying with him, if he told them what he’d done? Or would they cast him from their bed, back into the solitary wasteland from whence he’d come?_ _

__“You think too loudly, Angor.” Walter draped one thin arm over him, stretching like a cat. “Do leave off for a moment, won’t you?”_ _

__“Someone has to do it.” Angor replied automatically._ _

__Walter huffed loudly from his comfortable position sprawled across Angor’s chest. “Such cheek.” There was no venom in it, and Angor could feel Barbara’s belly jump as she snorted._ _

__“Down, boys.” Her voice was low, matronly. For an absurd moment, Angor wanted to curl into her and be held like a babe, to drift off to the lullaby of her heartbeat. He checked himself sharply, but Barbara stroked the top of his head, between his horns. “What are you thinking about?” Angor winced. He’d never learned how to fool her._ _

__“Things long past.” he intoned quietly. He shut his eye, seeking to escape their knowing gazes, but all he found was Ythraz’s unseeing eyes, so he opened it again. “Regret is a fool’s exercise. None of it can be taken back.” He realized fleetingly that his words likely wouldn’t make much sense to them, but once the floodgate burst, he couldn’t stem it. “I don’t know what I’m doing here; I can’t repair the harm I’ve caused.”_ _

__Unthinkingly, one hand reached for Walter’s throat, tracing the slender scar running up the side of his neck, knowing that one to match decorated Barbara’s, as well._ _

__“You both are fools. I’ve hurt you once, I could do it again.” He clenched one hand into a fist, pressing it against the floor, bitterness dripping from his tongue. The familiar spark of anger flared briefly to the front of his mind, but who was he angry at? Walter? Morgana? Himself? The individual threads had all run together, and he couldn’t hope to untangle the knot it left behind._ _

__No one broke the silence for a long stretch, and Angor internally recoiled from his own outburst. _You fool, _he railed at himself. _You wretched, pitiful fool. _______

______Caught up in his thoughts, he jumped when Barbara curled around his head, cupping it with the curve of her body. One white hand patted his cheek._ _ _ _ _ _

______“We’ll take our chances.” her voice was strange, caught between amusement and sadness. “I think we can all say we’ve made some questionable choices in the past.” She tapped Walter’s forehead lightly with her knuckles. “Right, Walt?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I haven’t a clue what you mean.” replied Walter, eyes closed and cheek resting on Angor’s chest._ _ _ _ _ _

______Barbara snorted, looking at the ceiling as she ran her fingers up and down Angor’s horns. “That’s just being human, I guess.” she continued simply. “If it still hurts, it means you can change. That you care enough to want to change.” Under his head, her belly inflated with a long sigh. “But, what do I know? I’m just… me.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Slowly, he rolled her words around in his head. The idea that he was capable of change had never occurred to him; when was it too late to do the right thing? He’d buried the troll he’d used to be, if only to spare himself the pain of witnessing his own fall._ _ _ _ _ _

______But Morgana was gone, vanquished, and he’d helped to do it. The world had been spared one more evil. Maybe that counted for something._ _ _ _ _ _

______Barely aware of what he was doing, Angor took the soft hand cradling his cheek. He rubbed his nose into her palm, perfumed by the scent of antiseptic that never quite left her skin. Strangely soothed, he felt himself growing drowsy, lulled by the feeling of two other pulses against his. Walter’s forehead bunted his chin, and he rubbed back into the motion with easy affection._ _ _ _ _ _

______Eye focused on the ceiling fan as it slowly stirred the air, he felt himself drifting off. This time, when sleep claimed him, it was dreamless._ _ _ _ _ _


	6. origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the origin story! how this triad of chaos came together in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been picking at this for literal months because i don't know how to write fight scenes. the end product is more coherent than i expected but uh. Good Luck.

Since the Eternal Night That Was Far From Eternal, Angor had been making himself busy beneath Arcadia. The town was slowly recovering from that extraordinary night, and Angor had taken advantage of the honeycomb of tunnels and passages running beneath to secure himself a little haven in his new almost-home. The ruins of Trollmarket were far from the worst place he’d lived. It was almost homey, aside from the occasional shambling attacks of undead Gumm-Gumms. If anything, it added character. 

To keep busy, he’d made a project of cataloging the numerous subterranean species left behind in the wake of Trollmarket’s population, slowly reclaiming the city-beneath-a-city for themselves. As Angor sat in the early hours of the evening, scratching out a rough draft of his almanac, a faint voice stirred him from his work. It was far off and tinny, echoing eerily off the damp cave walls.

_“Angor Rot!”_

Rather than leaping to his feet, he rose slowly, deliberately, scanning the shadows for an intruder. His name was called again, by a voice that was steadily growing more recognizable. 

“Angor!” 

He cocked his head. The Trollhunter? 

“Where are you? Show yourself, boy.” 

“Down here!” 

A steady drip of water fell from a stalactite into a small pool, covering the floor like a sheet of glass. A lucky find, in his estimation. It provided enough fresh water for himself, as well as his little agricultural experiments. Where he stood, it lapped against his foot, rippling at the vibration of his footsteps. He glanced down and took a sharp step back. 

Within the pool, the Trollhunter’s tense face rippled, shifting gently with the motion of the water. “Wow, so this actually works.”

From somewhere behind Jim, Angor heard Blinkous’ voice say faintly, _“I told you!”_

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jim waved a hand thoughtlessly over his shoulder, turning back to Angor with bloodshot eyes. “Look, I’m sorry to call you like this, but you don’t have a phone, and this is important.”

Angor crossed his arms, annoyed he hadn’t thought to equip his cave with anti-scrying charms. “What do you want?” 

“It’s my mom!” Jim’s thin self-control snapped, and he pushed his nose against the water, his harsh breath stirring the surface. “She’s in trouble, I messed up, and now--” 

“What did you do?” Angor snapped. “Make sense.” 

Jim took a long breath, collecting himself. “Okay, so. I kinda figured once we axed Morgana, things would go back to normal, right? But, uh... Merlin peaced out right after we got here, and then I got a visit from Samara? Like, ten minutes ago.” 

Angor made to interrupt, but Jim held up a hand. “No, no, wait, it gets better. She said she was gonna ‘condemn us to the Pit’ for ‘defying the cosmic will of her Eldritch Queen.’”

“What?” 

“Yeah. Big Morgana fan. But then we put her head through a wall, so she wants an easier target.” Jim’s manic expression was returning. “That’s my mom, Angor! She’s coming to _kill my mom.”_

“How do you know?” 

“Because _she said_ she’s coming to _kill my mom!”_ Jim shouted. 

“I still don’t see why you’re calling me.” 

Jim pulled his horns in frustration.“Oh, my God, dude, _I need your help.”_ he slapped his hand against his open palm with each word. “I need you to go keep my mom safe until I can get down there.” 

Angor didn’t move for a long minute. Eventually, Jim cocked his head, one finger coming up to tap the surface of the water. “Uh, hello? This thing still on?” 

Angor spoke, and Jim jumped. “Don’t you have your little friend to call on? The one with the hammer.” 

“Warhammer.” Jim corrected. 

“Warhammer. And the big one.” 

“College visits. Toby’s trying to get Aaarrrrgghh in as an emotional support troll. Or something.” 

“Your basement dweller?” 

“Draal’s here with me.”

“Stupid.” Angor wrinkled his nose, as if smelling something foul. “What about Strickler?” 

“Look, it’s not that I don’t trust him,” Jim paused. “No, I don’t trust him, but I also don’t know if he can handle this alone. This lady, she’s got some,” he waved his fingers wildly. “Crazy juju. I need someone who knows how to handle a sorcerer. You know, like you.” 

Angor gave him a long, hard look. “Why would I agree to this?” 

Jim ducked his head, scrubbing his eyes fiercely. Angor suddenly remembered how young the Trollhunter really was. 

“Because I need your help, and I’ll do anything, just please,” he turned the full face of his desperate expression on Angor. “Please, help my mom.”

Angor let the expectant silence hang, mind turning like a cog. He didn’t much care for the idea of running around after the Trollhunter, cleaning up his messes; he was an assassin, not a nanny. 

_However._ One of Morgana’s disciples was on the loose, and close to his new home. That couldn’t end well.

With a beleaguered sigh, Angor waved his hand in assent. “Very well. I will look after your fleshbag mother. For now.” 

Jim’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Angor, I--” 

“Don’t thank me yet, Hunter.” Angor snapped. “I’ll expect compensation for this.” 

“Anything.” Jim agreed immediately. “All I need is for you to keep an eye on things until I can get home. The Gyre’s almost functional, as long as they don’t--” 

Over the connection, Angor heard a distant rumble, and Jim’s image danced wildly in the pool. The Hunter jumped up and out of his view, though Angor heard him shouting faintly: _“Are you f--”_ the sound dropped out for a second. _“--ng kidding me?!”_

Jim reappeared, looking frazzled. “Look, I gotta go, they just hit another Grottworm nest. Just keep watch on my house, I don’t know when she’ll show up.”

_“Master Jim, if you’d be so kind!”_ Blinkous shouted over the sounds of thundering earth and curious, high-pitched squealing. 

“I’m coming, just--!” The scrying portal closed abruptly before Angor could ask any questions, and he was left staring into an empty pool. 

Angor groaned at the ceiling. He set about collecting his supplies, grumbling mutinously. Help those sad fools defeat _one_ deathless sorceress, and they start thinking they can make requests! Lifting a sack of course-ground rye flour, he finally found what he was looking for. 

Out of a burlap bag, he drew his knife, and a cartridge, his last, of Creeper’s Sun. Almost fondly, he spun it in his hand, testing the familiar weight. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flew from his grip and buried itself to the hilt in the far wall. Yanking it free, he slid it into it’s familiar spot on his hip. 

Time to go. 

 

Night had well and truly fallen when Angor reached the Trollhunter’s old den. The windows were dark, the house still as the grave. Even the wind seemed to be holding it’s breath. The Barbara didn’t seem to be home, her car missing from the driveway. 

It was nothing to let himself in through the front door, picking the lock with the slender tip of his dagger. Silently, he crept through the front room, tasting the air for any trace of blood or magic. He sensed neither, but unsheathed his knife anyways. 

A quick sweep, he decided, was called for. Morgana’s very shadow had eyes; her priests were no different. Stealthily, he made his way through the hallway, eye flicking from one shadow to the next.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of movement. 

Angor froze. A minute creak in the floorboards drifted towards him from the kitchen. Zeroing in on the sound, he spun the knife in his hand, the tempered edge catching the glow of his eye. 

Pressing his back to the staircase, he crept down the hall. A soft breeze seeping from the kitchen window brought to his nose a pungent whiff of fear. He hesitated, stride faltering as he tried to place the source. Definitely human, almost like it was coming from--

_WHUMP_

The air rushed out of him as a flat, heavy something struck him squarely in the gut. Wheezing violently, he was bent double by the blow, when--

_THUNK_

He was leaning into the next hit, which caught him full in the face. Stars exploded behind his eyelids. With a few dithering steps, he toppled backwards. 

Overhead, the lights flicked on into his smarting eye. Groaning, he held out a hand to shield his gaze. Despite his new double vision, he could make out the loosely-clad form of Barbara Lake, stepping from the recess in the wall leading to the basement door.

“Oh, God, it’s _you,_ ” she squawked. In her hands was a shovel with a deeply dented head. “You are so much scarier than I remember!” 

Lifting his head, Angor squinted blearily up at her. He had the muddled urge to laugh at the way her skinny legs poked from the bottom of her oversized nightshirt, stork-like in appearance. All he could manage was “Eugh?” He shifted painfully, holding his forehead. 

Barbara darted back a few steps. “Rule number three!” she whooped, hefting the shovel. 

“No, no, no, no, no!” Angor scrambled backwards on the floor, holding up a hand. “Stop, damn you!”

Shovel still leveled over her head, she froze, staring at him. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

Angor gripped the banister and dragged himself upright, keeping several feet between them. “The Trollhunter,” he grit out, head throbbing. “Your son sent me. He has reason to believe you’re in danger.” _You will be, if you hit me with that again_ , he managed to bite back. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.” 

Gaze flicking to his single eye, she gave a hysterical bark of laughter. Angor growled low in his throat. Sobering quickly, her eyes sharpened with suspicion. 

“And why would Jim send _you_ , of all people?” she asked, prodding him with the butt end of her shovel. 

“I was wondering the same.” he snapped, swatting it away. “All this trouble, just to get my skull staved in by some ingrate fleshbag. I--”

And, just like that, the lights went out with a pop and a fizzle. 

“Oh, no.” said Barbara from somewhere in the darkness. 

_Damn,_ thought Angor. _I hate when that boy is right._

“Get down.” he hissed, taking Barbara by the wrist and pulling her into a crouch. “Keep quiet and stay behind me.” 

“Yeah, since that worked out so well last time.” Barbara whispered caustically from his shoulder, yanking her arm away. Angor would have snarled at her, but abruptly froze.

Through the lacy curtains of the kitchen window, there came a soft, ivory glow. It passed from window to window, moving sedately towards the back door. 

Beside him, Barbara had gone quite still. There was the faint scrape of metal on wood as she pulled her shovel closer, her gaze never leaving the advancing light. The two of them crouched there, motionless and silent, for what felt like a short eternity. Angor could almost hear the rush of Barbara’s blood in her veins, an undercurrent of fear coloring her scent. 

The light stopped squarely in front of the back door, filtering in through the cracks in the frame. The doorknob turned once, gently. Locked. For a moment, all was still. 

Then, the door began to rattle. Loudly. Angor could hear the lock beginning to falter as metal twisted, the wood groaning.

“Move!” he barked, shoving Barbara forward. The pair of them tumbled into the living room an instant before the door flew from it’s frame and down the hallway, splintering against the far wall. Barbara yelped somewhere near his elbow, and Angor’s fingers tightened on his dagger. 

Warily, he leaned his head into the hallway, catching a glimpse of the gaping hole left behind. The doorway was empty. His brow furrowed. Then, from behind them, he heard a tinkling, musical voice say:

_“Hello.”_

They struck in unison, Angor’s knife and Barbara’s spade crunching into the floorboards behind them. Nothing.

“Up here, darlings.” The pair turned their faces upwards. 

Like a great white spider, a woman hovered, sprawled out across the ceiling, her straight black hair and diaphanous white gown floating about her like a fine mist. The pearly skin, stretched thinly over delicate bones, seemed to shimmer in the low light, the only spots of color in the beautiful face a red mouth and two beetle-black eyes. 

At his side, Angor felt Barbara recoil in horror. He noticed a bad taste in the back of his mouth. “Tamsin Blight.” 

The crimson mouth curved an artificial smile. “Angor Rot. My mistress’s favored pet. Why here do I find you, guarding our enemy’s kin?” 

“I no longer serve the Pale Lady. Begone.” Angor didn’t bother masking his disdain. 

Tamsin’s smile flickered, something sinister rising to the surface, but it vanished in a trice. She turned her wet black eyes on Barbara. 

“So, this is the great Trollhunter’s mother!” Her thin frame twitched strangely, and she vanished.

Barbara whirled in confusion when a gaunt hand gripped her shoulder. She shouted, tearing free, falling backwards.

“I can’t say I’m impressed.” Tamsin looked down at her derisively. Barbara scrambled away, her back slamming into the couch. The witch stooped over her, a spidery hand cupping her cheek. “Such a drab little thing, aren’t you, dear?” 

Babara’s breath rattled fearfully. “G-get,” the muscles coiled in her arms. “Get _away!_ ”

The spade sliced through the air toward the witch’s head. 

Tamsin caught it in her bare palm, holding it effortlessly as Barbara trembled with exertion. A graceful sweep of her arm, and the shovel buried itself in the living room wall. 

“You’re a bit out of your depth, darling.” Tamsin’s voice dripped malice.

There was a thin rushing sound, a blur of acid green. A white hand rose faster than the eye could follow. 

Angor’s knife quivered between two fingers, snatched from the air like a fly. Tsking, Tamsin tossed it carelessly aside, straightening. 

“Well, that was foolish.”

Angor flew at her, roaring. Tamsin met him halfway.

They clashed in a halo of white fire. It washed over the room, rolling over his stone skin like water. The scent of burnt hair curled in his nostrils. He heard Barbara call out from somewhere, but he had no time to look for her.

“Angor Rot!” From the inferno swarming up her body, Tamsin drew a scorch-black blade, drooling blue flame. “Our Lady favored you for your skill, you know.” 

Angor wove between the lines drawn by her blazing sword. Sliding under her blade, he wrapped one hand round her throat. She grinned at him with too many teeth. 

“But I was something of a favorite, myself.” 

“Funny,” Angor spat. “She didn’t talk much of you.” Tamsin’s grin soured. 

The inferno enveloped them.

When Angor opened his eye, he was laying atop the smoldering wreckage of Barbara’s kitchen counters. He’d been flung through the flimsy screen, leaving it in singed tatters. Ears ringing, he lay winded, trying find his air.

From out of the blaze, Tamsin shimmered into view. She stroked one hand along the flat of her blade. 

“Well, my dears, it’s been such fun, but...” she raised her sword high. “All fun things must end.” 

Angor flung out one arm to shield himself as the blade sliced through the air, face turned away. He expected it to sear through him and cleave his hand from his wrist. Instead, he heard a hard thunk and a shriek of rage. 

Opening his eye, he saw Barbara. With trembling arms, she blocked the path of Tamsin’s sword with the handle of her spade. For a heartbeat, all he could do was stare.

“Any time you could jump in would be great!” Barbara shouted over her shoulder. 

“Impudent sow!” Tamsin’s sword vanished in a cloud of ash. She seized the handle, the veins bulging on her bony hands. Lips drawn back from her teeth, she hissed. “So eager to meet your end?

“I just finished drywalling in here.” snarled Barbara. “You don’t want any of what I am right now.” 

Babara was almost bowed backwards, Tamsin bearing down on her from above. The witch lashed out with one hand, scoring bloody furrows into Barbara’s face. She held her ground, but Barbara was flagging. Arms buckling, Barbara threw a Angor a desperate look. 

Angor lowered his head like a bull and charged.

The sharp crown of his horns struck unprotected ribs. The witch screamed, drowning out the sound of cracking bone. Her grip broke as she turned on him instead.

Without hesitation, Barbara swung. The sharp edge of the blade caught unguarded temple.

A spray of blood painted the walls, black in the darkness. 

The sorceress dropped like a stone. Under her head, a sticky puddle began to seep across the floor.

Angor heard the spade fall, and looked up to see Barbara staggering backwards. She caught herself on the counter, her face wan and stunned. 

“Oh, God, is she--? Did I--?” She pressed her hand to her mouth, then yanked it away when she found it splattered with blood. “I feel sick.” 

Angor took a wide step away, looking at her warily. Suddenly, he noticed a strange tension hanging in the air. It crackled around him, sparking like rogue lightening. Something was wrong.

Then, the pile of fabric and bones shifted. 

The dirty silk folds of Tamsin’s dress billowed to life, coiling around the wasting frame like a bloodsoaked cocoon. Slowly, it began to rise. 

Floating free of the ground, the witch’s limbs dangled like a stringless puppet, twisting, swinging, impossibly boneless. The head whipped up with the popping of misaligned vertebrae, face hidden by a curtain of hair. All to be seen was a single, vengeful eye. 

“You dare?” The hair parted, revealing the seeping gash splitting her head like a gourd. The skin knitted itself closed even as they watched. “You dare strike me?” 

“Oh, hell.” said Barbara. 

Foamy spittle flecked the corners of the witch’s mouth. Falling from her hover, she crouched on all fours, poised like a lioness. Her voice rose, raspy and wet, from the tangled hair. 

“I’ll suck the marrow from your bones, slut.” 

The witch flew at them, howling. White teeth flashed in her too-large mouth.

Angor leaped into her path, one arm stretched out to shield Barbara, when--

A dark shape shattered the window behind them. Glass flew in a glittering rain as the mass and witch rolled across the floor.

“Run, Barbara!” it cried. Heavy wings flapped frantically, the dark shape falling into a familiar form. 

“Walt!” Barbara reached out, but Angor pulled her back. 

“Go!” he roared, and flung himself into the fray. 

Lavender blood smeared the floor as they grappled. Angor wasn’t sure if it was his or Strickler’s. Tamsin fought like something possessed, screaming and writhing. The human shape she wore was crumbling into something very un-, all long limbs and unhinged jaw. Claws raked him, and his fist cracked into a soft skull. Something thin and hot wrapped around his leg.

There was a jerk, and Angor’s head snapped to the side as he was dragged into the air and thrown against the ceiling. It knocked a shout out of him, and somewhere beside him there was a crash. Strickler yowled in pain. 

Angor thrashed, but he was trapped. Ropes of white fire coiled around him, his bones groaning under the squeeze.

When Angor looked down, Barbara was gone. Instead, Tamsin Blight stood on crooked legs, narrow shoulders heaving. 

“You,” she rasped. “You two. I am going to _unmake_ you.”

The ropes tightened sharply, and Angor gasped as his lungs constricted. Strickler thrashed, spitting and cursing, wings beating like a dying bird. 

“Then, I’m going to kill your precious little woman.” she continued, and what might have been a smile twisted her deformed mouth. “A shame you won’t be there to watch.” 

“Watch this!” 

Tamsin’s leer vanished. She took a swaying step forwards, her gruesome face twisting in confusion. 

Angor and Strickler crashed to the floor when the cords abruptly vanished. Snarling, Angor crouched to spring on her, before stopping short. 

The witch turned. Sprouting from her back was his dagger, the acidic glow draining as it’s venom pumped into her blood. Behind her stood Barbara, silhouetted in the doorway by dancing white flames. 

“What have you done to me?” Tamsin’s bleated. Stone was seething across her body, freezing her in place. “What have you done?!” She clawed desperately at her petrifying flesh, fingernails breaking and bleeding. 

“Rule number two.” Barbara’s voice was flat and cold. “Finish the fight.” 

The scream on the witch’s lips never broke free, her lungs already fossilized. Angor watched as the climbing stone closed over her black eyes, turning them to obsidian marbles. Bony stone hands reached out to Barbara, twisted by death throes. 

Barbara slammed her shoulder into the statue. As if frozen in time, it teetered precariously for an instant. Then, it shattered with a crash, chunks of stone scattering across the floor. 

There was a strange rushing sound, and the fire dancing across the house whirled into the air, vanishing in a swirl of smoke. Barbara watched it with an expression of dazed curiosity. Angor sensed Strickler sprawled on his belly beside him, open-mouthed and gaping. 

Barbara broke the silence by snatching up the overturned waste bin vomiting into it. 

“Barbara, dear, are you--?” Strickler tripped over himself in his rush to her side, frantically running his hands over her, trying to assess her hurts. 

“Oh, god, she’s dead--” she coughed and spat. “I just killed someone, holy--” 

“You did what you had to do.” Angor had managed to pick himself up, holding his side. He wondered idly how many ribs he’d broken. 

Strickler whirled on him, wings flared. Stepping between Angor and Barbara, he hissed. “And what, pray tell, are _you_ doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same.” 

“I live here, you pillock!” 

“Walt, stop.” Barbara groaned into the bin. “Jim asked him to come. I think he saved my life.” 

“You think?” Angor retorted. 

“Why would he--?!” Strickler took a sharp, deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why would Jim call _him_ before he called us?” 

“Was your phone off again?” 

“Of course not, it wouldn’t--” Strickler yanked his phone from his hip pocket indignantly, tapping furiously. After a second, there was a soft jingle, and his face fell. “Ah.” 

Barbara took the phone from his flaccid grip and pressed a button. 

_“Strickler pick up the phone pick up the phone I swear to God pick up the fu--”_

She tapped it again, cutting off Jim’s harried voice. Silence hung heavy over the three of them for a moment. Then Barbara glanced at the floor, and her face went yellow. 

“Can someone get her out of here?” 

Angor followed her finger to the stone head lying at his foot. Bending stiffly, he picked it up and chucked it out the ruin of the back door. It thudded dully on the grass. Barbara leaned on the wall, moaning. 

Slowly, Barbara collected herself, straightening and looking around. “Looks like I’m repainting again.” she said grimly. “Guess I should get that Menard’s membership card.” 

Angor, for his part, felt it was time to go. Strickler was giving him a leery sideways look, and he noticed a feathered knife clutched tightly in his knobby fist. 

Without pausing to explain himself, he began to limp out the door before Barbara called, “Wait!” 

He stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at her. She crossed the room to him, smiling wearily. 

“Thanks. For your help. You didn’t have to do that, but you did.” She nodded towards his throbbing ribs. “Are you gonna be okay?” 

“I’ve had worse.” he replied suspiciously. What was she playing at? 

“Well, if you want, maybe you can come around for dinner sometime. We’d love to have you.” Strickler croaked violently, rigid with horror. Barbara gave him a hard look. “Wouldn’t we, Walt?” 

It took Strickler a moment to swallow his obvious rage. His leathery wings stood straight out, stiff as plyboard, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He was beside himself. Angor was enjoying every minute of it. 

At a pace, he moved jerkily to Barbara’s side, eyes slitted. 

“Don’t bring the knife.” he ground out. 

Angor let his smug pleasure filter through his squinted eye. 

Barbara grinned, giving him a companionable thump on the arm. “Maybe next time you come around, my house won’t get destroyed!” 

“Unlikely.” he replied. 

“Yeah, I know.” Casting a weary eye around the destroyed kitchen, she put her hands on her hips. “I’m just gonna… leave this, for tomorrow. Walt, where’d you put the whiskey?” 

That’s how Angor left them, cracking open a bottle of liquor on the kitchen floor. With him, he carried a dinner invitation, and an arm tingling from Barbara’s soft hand. Gazing up at the lightening sky, he wondered what one brought to a human dinner party. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draal lives in this because i cannot picture Jim ever being ok with Angor dating his mom if he murdered his buddy.
> 
> also, Barb does not seem like the kind of person who could just. kill something. without feeling really bad about it. i thought her blending that goblin with a smile was a little out there. i mean, she's a doctor??
> 
> Tamsin Blight is a real supposed witch, chosen strictly because she has a cool name and not because i know anything about her.


End file.
